


start me up

by jynxu



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, First Kiss, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynxu/pseuds/jynxu
Summary: Richie Tozier is an asshole, but Eddie maybe (just maybe) might be one too.-or: eddie's pining after richie becomes a little noticeable, richie makes jokes, and bill is the best friend a guy could ever have





	start me up

Eddie knows that Richie Tozier likes to be the center of attention. In fact, using the word "likes" doesn't even begin to cover the topic; ever since they were kids, Richie has had a constant need for everyone's eyes to be trained on him.

Things change—Eddie knows that, too. They change immensely, most prominently after spending their summer break four years ago fighting some demon sent straight from hell. Good times and bad times come hand in hand; although he made new friends, the old started to become different than what Eddie has been used to.

Richie especially.

The one thing Eddie _doesn't_ know is why Richie's never aware of _his_ offered attention. He always takes notice of the boy and his constant jokes (though most of them are at his expense), but the feeling isn't mutual.

Hasn't been for months.

Going back to the whole "change" ordeal, Eddie thinks that he's the only one who's stayed, essentially, the same. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Doesn't matter to him, really. Or, at least, it shouldn't; maybe Richie would pay more attention to him if he started to change.

It scares him, though, so he doesn't. He comes to school in a plain sweater (hand-made by his mother) and jeans, like he always does, and checks his locker for any foreign objects shoved in through the three small gaps. Henry Bowers is long gone, disappeared years ago, but the occasional slip of paper with the word "fag" or "queer-boy" scribbled across it will sometimes show itself. Luckily, nobody wanted to deliver any sort of letter to his locker today.

"H-Hey, Eddie," he hears from beside him, recognizing the stutter instantly. "You wuh-wuh-wanna come over a-a-after school?"

Bill stands a good couple inches over Eddie, tall enough so that he has to tilt his chin upwards to make eye contact. "Sure thing, Bill," he closes his locker and hoists his backpack higher onto his shoulders, "do you need help with homework or something?"

"Nuh-nuh-no," Bill stumbles, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. "I th-thought you might want to s-s-see the new radio I g-got. And Richie will be th-thuh-ere." One corner of his mouth tilts upward into a classic awkward teenage grin. "I thought yuh-hou might w-wuh-huh-want to see him, t-t-t-too."

Eddie opens his mouth to respond, but his tongue feels awful dry. Instead, he counts the times that Bill trips over the word "too," focusing on that instead of the opportunity to see Richie one-on-one. Well, not technically, but Bill should be fine with giving them some privacy. His closest friend seems to understand the absolute disarray his heart is in for Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier.

"S-See you later," the taller boy says, giving Eddie a reassuring pat on the shoulder before turning away.

With the sound of the first period bell, Eddie almost trips over himself while making his way through the hall. He only has one class with Richie, and the guy hardly ever shows up in the first place. The horrid subject of Algebra 2 repels him like two South poles of a magnet, apparently; Richie usually skips the class in favor of a smoke. Possibly with Beverly, but Eddie's not sure. It could be with anyone, no matter what grade. In fact, the notorious Trashmouth has gained himself some popularity after the rough middle school years because of his stash of cigarettes that never seem to get confiscated. Anyone who needs one simply just asks; with a sly comment, Richie gives out his cigs like presents on Christmas.

"Kaspbrak," he overhears his teacher call, "can you answer number nineteen, or are you too busy?"

Usually, in middle school, the calling out of a student is met with scattered giggles throughout the classroom. One of the only things Eddie likes about high school is that his classmates are much too busy with their own affairs to laugh at him.

"S-Sorry, Mrs. Warner," he coughs out, attempting to elude embarrassment. "Number nineteen, huh..."

Eddie realizes that he should probably pay better attention in Mrs. Warner's class.

 

Today must be his lucky day.

Though a minute or two late to class, Richie shows up for once. He gives a loud apology to the teacher for interrupting the lesson before he takes his seat, slouching in disinterest. Eddie doesn't realize he's been staring until Richie meets his eyes and smirks, going as far to wink at him. Instantly, Eddie's eyes make a beeline for the tiled floor.

He's going to get shit for staring; there's no way Richie will let it go. The second after the dismissal bell rings, he'll be bombarded with those insulting jokes of his—maybe they'll be about something other than his mother today.

Just as predicted, the teacher wraps up his lesson before the bell rings. Eddie gathers his things as quick as possible, trying to escape the overbearing thought of Richie pointing out the fact that he was staring. _Staring, of all things?_ he thinks, accusing himself. _What are you, ten? Jeezum-_

"You notice my jeans, Eds?" Richie comes on strong, grabbing the smaller boy by the waist and peering over his shoulder. "They're new. Went shopping this weekend—I'm glad you took note."

"I told you not to call me that," Eddie mumbles, feeling his naturally-pink cheeks fill with even more color than what should be considered normal. "I didn't even look at your jeans, idiot. I was just surprised that you even showed up today."

"Aw, c'mon. Your mama gets to call you all these cute names, Spaghetti, why don't I?" Richie tugs on his waist again before taking a few steps backward to let Eddie admire his new pair of jeans. "Well, you better take a good look at 'em now. They'll be on your mama's floor pretty soon."

 _They sure don't look new,_ Eddie thinks, _how many holes can one pair of jeans have?_ He narrows his eyes at the taller boy for the joke at the expense of his mother. "I think you need a size smaller," he comments, finally getting his bag together.

As the rest of the stragglers are finally leaving the room, Eddie shrugs his shoulders before tearing his eyes from the jeans that hang loose ( _too_ loose) from Richie's thin legs. Although he's gotten much taller than he was in middle school, his weight has most likely stayed exactly the same. While Eddie stands at least five inches shorter than him, there's a chance that if they both stepped on a scale, the number would read the same. Richie's much too lean, in his opinion, but he knows the reason. The only thing included in his diet is a pack a day.

"You're going to Bill's, right?" Richie asks as he follows behind Eddie, his long strides closing the gap quick.

"Not if _you_ are," Eddie lies through his teeth, his stomach beginning to swirl.

"Ouch. Eds, you're being awful rude today, huh? What's the deal?"

"Leave me alone, Trashmouth."

Richie stops in his tracks; the silence is much too long for someone like him. It startles Eddie, that he doesn't have a snide comment immediately after, but he doesn't show it. Instead, he refuses to look behind him as the other students file into the space between them, closing off contact for good.

 

"Wuh-ere's Richie?" Bill asks as soon as Eddie throws his backpack into a chair in frustration. Bill's garage is clean as ever, and he's even set out a couple lawn chairs for his friends. He always puts everyone else before himself. "Didn't he f-f-follow you home from sch-huh-school?"

"No, he didn't," Eddie grumbles, throwing himself into the chair right after his backpack.

"Oh," Bill says, without a single stutter.

Silence ensues, but it only holds itself for a minute before Eddie throws his head into his hands and begins to sob.

"Eh-Eh-huh," Bill tries to get his name out of his uncooperative throat, but he's standing up and stumbling over to his friend before he can stutter anything. "W-What happened?"

"Th-That fuckin' idiot," it's Eddie's turn to stutter, "that fucking _idiot,_ Richie, he doesn't...he doesn't--" Eddie sobs again, refusing to move his hands from over his eyes.

"I'm suh-horry, Eddie," Bill murmurs, rubbing the smaller boy's back with one of his gentle hands. "H-H-He doesn't understa-huh-nd, does he?"

Eddie just nods.

It takes him a second to realize that the failure of an interaction he had with Richie at school was no one's fault but his own. _He never takes me seriously,_ Eddie tries to argue with himself weakly, but it doesn't convince his conscience. "He talked to me today," he whispers, voice rough from his crying. "He talked to me, and that hasn't happened in so long that I just _forgot_ what to say, Bill, a-and--" Eddie sighs, causing his shoulders to shake.

"It's o-okay," Bill assures him, and opens his mouth again before he's interrupted by an unwanted guest.

"Everything okay in here?" Richie Tozier says, his loud voice filling the entire garage. There's a cigarette in his teeth and a twitch in his hands. His face is painted with genuine concern for Eddie; he takes a step into the room, his sneakers making inappropriate squeaking sounds against the cement.

Eddie, face flushed and nose dripping, stares at Richie with the most hatred he's ever held toward the boy. "What, are you here to make fun of me?" he stands up from the chair, startling both Bill and Richie, "are you here to make jokes about the little queer-boy and how he cries like a bitch?"

"N-No, Eddie--" Richie lowers his eyebrows in confusion and some other expression that is one unfamiliar to everyone in the garage. (Is it hurt? Is Richie Tozier even capable of feeling hurt?)

"Then leave."

So Richie does. Reluctantly, but he does.

Eddie collapses back into the chair after Richie's lean frame disappears and the tears keep coming. He digs the aspirator from his bag, pulling the trigger as soon as it touches his lips, but to no avail. Bill tries his best to comfort him, but Eddie wasn't going to let himself be comforted over Richie. Not for a long time.

 

It takes about a month before Eddie says a word to Richie; even then, it was forced.

Their stupid algebra teacher had decided that it was a great idea, the greatest idea of the century, to pair Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier together for a shared assignment. Eddie's a straight-A student, while Richie is not; maybe some kind of learning could occur with the mixing of the two polar opposites.

That one, single word that Eddie says to Richie is all it takes.

"Hey," he mumbles, staring at his folded hands, then at the ceiling. ( _Look anywhere but at_ him, _for the love of God_ , Eddie thinks.)

Richie doesn't respond. He settles himself into the desk next to Eddie, leaning back so that the chair comes off its front legs and crossing his arms. A couple seconds pass before he actually scoots his chair _away_ from Eddie.

"You, uh," the shorter of the two starts to say, "you want to split the assignment? Half-and-half?"

"Mmh."

"Okay, then. That's settled."

A single forefinger and the incessant tapping it causes is the only break between the suffocating silence. Eddie tries to whistle along with the beat his finger is tapping out, but he finds that his mouth is too dry.

The assignment is completed by Eddie all on his own. Richie sits in silence the entire time, playing with the holes in his jeans.

 

"I don't know, Bill," Eddie's voice is strained; even though he's somewhat aware that the entire situation lies in his own faulty hands, some part of him still tries to blame Richie.

"W-Well, you g-guh-guys better make u-u-up tonight," Bill informs, gesturing towards his house as he and Eddie walk up the driveway, "he's c-cuh-huh-coming over, and s-so is Stan. Huh-ope you don't mind, Eh-Eddie."

"Damn it, Bill," he responds, covering his face with his hands as the stress spreads through his bones. "What, is his mom angry that he smokes in the house? Does he _really_ have to use your garage for that stuff? I mean," Eddie stops talking for a moment as he and Bill enter the latter's room and sit on the bed, "he's going to get someone killed, and it's probably going to be himself. Y'know how _weird_ he starts acting, after he's been hanging out with the dopers, and how he can't even walk in a straight _line_ or..."

Bill smiles knowingly, patting Eddie's knee. "Yuh-you still care about h-h-him a lot, huh?"

"Well, of course—" Eddie closes his mouth shut tight suddenly, before picking and choosing his words more carefully. "I mean, I just don't want him to _die_ , you get me?"

"O-oh, I get you, a-ah-alright," Bill raises his eyebrows, the doubt evident in his face.

 

Stan shows up perfectly punctual, right on time, and suggests that the get-together be moved into the garage so that Bill's parents don't have to deal with whatever story he has to tell. Stan's voice has evolved in tone, both in how deep it's become and how _loudly_ he can speak nowadays. Back when they were kids, Stan hardly ever had the chance to speak his mind; in the rare occasion that he gathered up the courage to speak, he'd be instantly quieted by Richie's booming voice.

Things change.

"Get this," he begins, bending his knees so that he can sit against the wall. "Aubrey Finch asked me to do her homework. _The_ Aubrey Finch. Can you believe it?"

"Th-Thah-hut's great, Stan," Bill says, clapping the curly-haired boy on his back. "I buh-bet she wants t-t-take you straight h-huh-home to her bed."

"I'm serious, Denbrough," Stan turns a rather bright shade of red, from his ears that stick out a little too far, all the way to his fingers. "She came up to me in class, right in front of everyone. She's not even asking me to do the whole assignment, guys! Just half of it!"

"Wow," Eddie observes sarcastically. "You might be taking this the wrong way, Stan. Richie makes me do his homework all the time, does that mean that he wants to get in _my_ pants?"

Eddie wants to take the statement back the very second it leaves his mouth.

"Well," Stan starts to say, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say he does."

"Sh-Sh-Shuh-ut up, Stan," Bill warns, watching as Eddie's expression changes  drastically. The smile is wiped from his face, and the smallest of twitches tug at the corners of his mouth.

The garage becomes quiet; these days, it's never as cacophonous as it was in the summer of '58. To Eddie, it seems that silence comes a lot easier as teenagers.

"Isn't Richie coming over?" Stan mumbles as he picks at the skin around his fingernails. Eddie looks toward the open garage door at the mention of Richie's name, part of him hoping that he'd be there, leaning against the wall with a wretched cigarette in his mouth and a cocky, lopsided grin on his face.  _"Wanna smoke, Eds?"_ he'd say, letting smoke drift from his mouth, and shove the cig towards him. Eddie would complain about how it causes his asthma to act up and go off about how unhealthy it is, all the illnesses that sharing a cigarette could cause...

"He's a-a-always luh-late," Bill responds, pushing himself off the wall and peering outside in lookout of Richie. "I huh-huh-hope he gets here soon, I r-really need a smoke."

Eddie keeps to himself as Stan and Bill get into a caring argument over smoking in an enclosed space. _Stan knows how bad it is_ , Eddie thinks haphazardly, _he knows what it's like._ With his eyes trained on Bill's old bike, Silver, left to rot in the garage (no matter how big they thought the bike was as kids, Bill's become much too gangly to have any use for it), Eddie listens to the voices of his friends become muffled. He falls into a daze, staring at Silver and reminiscing about the first day they met Ben Hanscom; how Bill had used that behemoth of a bike to race from the Barrens to get his aspirator a refill.

Eddie was sure he was going to die that day.

"If y-y-you don't have e-eh-enough for the b-buh-oth of us, I'll kuh-hill you, T-T-Tozier."

As much as Eddie wants to keep his eyes on the bike that saved every one of his friends in the past, he simply can't. It proves impossible.

Slowly, he looks up to see Richie distributing his precious Camels to Bill as Stan looks at them, almost longingly. Richie keeps his own eyes on Bill, seemingly unaware that Eddie is even there; as he pulls out his very own lighter (he hasn't used a match in years), the two pairs of eyes meet.

Eddie blinks. Richie looks away.

"'Ey, Stan," he says, imitating the cashier at the general store, "what's wit' the look? You wan' one, too?"

"Can't say I do, Rich. My old man says them things kill you on the inside."

"Ah, phooey," Richie groans, pushing his way past Bill (somehow, the latter is still taller than Richie, despite the huge growth spurt he had freshman year). "Your old man's a lying sack of shit. You know what they say—"

Before some kind of stereotypical joke about Stan's father leaves Richie's mouth, Eddie stands up without thinking it over.

"I—" he tries to say, "I want a smoke."

All three jaws drop to the hard cement floor of the Denbrough's garage.

"Jeezum-crow, Eds," Richie whispers, his eyes appearing wider than ever behind his thick lenses. "Are you serious?"

"You duh-duh-d-don't have to do th-that, Eh-Eh-Eh—"

"I want one," Eddie repeats, a newfound firmness in his voice this time, as he extends a hand towards Richie.

In turn, Richie Tozier is rendered speechless for one of the very few times in his life (most of these occurrences being caused by Eddie). He gives Bill a  _look_ , as if searching for some sort of approval, before his dark eyes look down at the smaller boy. (He's still much too small for his age.) Richie licks his lips before speaking. "This is like taking your virginity. I don't like it."

"Just give me a fucking cigarette, you idiot!" Eddie shouts, his voice squeaking as he does so. Compiled with the comment about virginity, the embarrassment of a voice crack causes splotches of color to rise against his skin.

"Okay, okay," Richie mutters, gesturing to Bill that some _very_ much-needed alone time between him and Eddie Spaghetti was to happen immediately. He shakes his hand at the taller boy and Stan before re-opening the pack of Camels, his eyes on Eddie.

"H-Hey, Suh-Suh-Stan. Y-Y-You wanna check out m-my nuh-new radio?" Bill stutters out, tugging on Stan's collared shirt hurriedly.

"Uh, I guess, but—" Stan is cut off abruptly as Bill yanks him along through the garage door, closing it as loud as physically possible.

Eddie takes the smoke between his forefinger and thumb, handling it as if it were a used Band-Aid. _Disgusting,_ he thinks, _this is so disgusting. What am I doing?_ With a shudder, he realizes that he's acting tough to impress Richie.

The silence that settles over the garage is most certainly awkward; while Richie can't stop licking his lips, Eddie shakily puts the cigarette between his own. Though it's unlit, he can already _taste_ the smoke and it's suffocating him, there's no way his throat isn't closing up, an asthma attack is on its way—

As his breath hitches, his hand ghosts over the back pocket of his jeans, where his aspirator sits in waiting. _Placebo,_ he thinks, _it's nothing more than a placebo._ Instead of relieving himself, Eddie chokes down his fear, leaving the aspirator unused.

"Here, Eds," Richie pipes up quietly (as quiet as the Trashmouth can be), taking a puff from his own cigarette, "I can shotgun it to ya'. It's easier that way, especially since it's your first time."

"Ah-ah-okay," Eddie coughs, swallowing hard, because he doesn't have the slightest clue what shotgunning is.

Before he gets the courage to ask, Richie is leaning down to close the gap between them; his lips break apart and Eddie thinks, _Oh my god, he's going to kiss me._

Nothing of the sort happens. Eddie gets a lungful of smoke blown into his wide-open mouth (he really _did_ think that Richie would kiss him), resulting in chokes and splutters. Richie stifles a laugh; it doesn't last for long. He's doubling over in laughter, grabbing onto the smaller boy's shoulder for support.

"Christ, Spaghetti," he caws, dropping his cigarette. Richie covers his mouth to muffle his giggling before erupting into laughter once more.

Eddie has no response. Well, he does, but his throat is closed so tight that there's no possible way it could ever come out. He fumbles for the aspirator in his pocket again (fucking placebo) and relieves himself of the attack. It takes awhile, but his throat opens up and his breathing is no longer one wheeze after another.

"F-Fuck you, Richie," he manages to say, disregarding the tears that well up in his eyes (whether they come from the physical hurt or the psychological, he's not sure).

"What," Richie groans, standing back up and lifting his hand from the other boy's shoulder, "what did you think I was gonna do? _Kiss_ you?"

"I..." Eddie bites into his bottom lip.

"Oh. Oh, my god. You... you really thought I was gonna kiss you, huh?" Richie grins, showing off his front teeth that he finally, _finally_ grew into just last year, just in time for the nickname "Bucky Beaver" to become obsolete. "Jeezum, Eds, that shit is reserved for your ma. Both for you, and for me. In fact, I think I might pay Mrs. K. a visit—"

"Shut up! Just shut _up,_ Richie!" Eddie erupts, narrowing his eyes and excusing the tears that had kept to themselves, letting them fall. "Why would I think you'd kiss me? I'm not a fucking _queer_ , I can't believe you'd listen to those guys at school!"

Richie lifts his hand for a moment, as though he was going to reach out for Eddie, but drops it instead. "I was joking, Eddie," he says, and the use of Eddie's full name (not Eds, or Spaghetti, or any of the plethora of nicknames Richie has for him) causes the smaller boy to suck in a breath.

"You _always_ say that! Every time we say 'shut up, Richie,' you don't! You... you just keep spouting shit from your stupid mouth!" Eddie balls his fists at his sides, and for a moment, he almost thinks about punching Richie right in that mouth of his. "Are _you_ the one writing those notes? The ones that say _fag_ and _queer-boy_ and—and—"

While Eddie's anger resides to big, fat tears, Richie makes what might possibly be the bravest decision in his life.

With one bony hand, he takes ahold of Eddie's waist; with the other, he threads his fingers through the boy's hair (it's grown longer since they were kids), and then kisses him.

Even though Richie tastes like smoke (and the hand in his hair is pulling a little bit too tightly), Eddie would describe his first kiss as "pretty okay."

As they break apart, Richie's face is filled with something that can only be categorized as remorse. "I'm really sorry, Eds." He releases his hold on Eddie, shoving his hand into his pockets. "I don't... I don't really know how to handle myself, you get me? The teasing was just... I knew you hated it, but jokes are all I'm good at."

"Was _that_ for real? I mean, was it...?" Eddie questions, his gaze falling so that he stares at the floor.

"Yeah," Richie sighs, "yeah, that was for real."

Eddie yanks on the taller boy's t-shirt, forcing him to bend down so that he can press their lips together one more time. It's not as quick; Richie's hand snakes its way around Eddie's neck as he tries to open the latter's mouth so that he can push their kiss into something a little bit more than that.

The hypochondriac only lasts for a couple seconds; he breaks away and nearly spits onto the garage floor. "That's disgusting, Richie," he says, faux anger in his eyes. Then he laughs, letting Richie know that it's all okay, everything is finally _okay_. That they don't have to worry about pent-up frustration and hidden emotions. Even though Richie's changed, Eddie can learn how to handle him.

"So, about that visit to Mrs. K.," Richie says snidely, rubbing his thumb against Eddie's dappled cheek.

"Shut up, Richie."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! title taken from "start me up" by the rolling stones.


End file.
